Chapter 506: Death Eaters Malfoy
Wade panned the lens, catching sight of a few more compartments across the aisle—School compartments, each filled with students being escorted by their respective professors to watch the match. All were teenagers, born into peace, blessed with powers ordinary people could scarcely imagine. Even among their peers, they stood out as exceptional talent. Their faces glowed with youthful energy, vibrant and full of life.
Perhaps the adults behind them had their own ambitions—practical, perhaps even selfish motives for coming to Britain. But the students themselves rarely thought so deeply. As far as they were concerned, the game was simply something to enjoy, to give their all to, nothing more.
At that moment, the young people were no different from any other frenzied audience—cheering, screaming, eyes locked on the streaking players. They roared with joy when their team scored, groaned in frustration when they lost.
Suddenly, Wade’s telescope paused. In the lens, he saw the Malfoy family’s compartment.
What drew his attention was the sheer extravagance: like Sirius Black, they had reserved an entire compartment to themselves, yet left the extra seats empty, uninvited.
Draco Malfoy leaned over the railing, utterly absorbed in the game, his expression no different from Harry’s beside him. His mother sat quietly in a chair nearby, smiling faintly. She seemed indifferent to the match, her gaze lingering mostly on her son.
Lucius Malfoy had been sitting frowning nearby—then, without warning, he leaned over and whispered something to his wife. He rose from his seat, slipped through a small door at the back of the compartment, and vanished from Wade’s line of sight.
Wade turned the lens again, spotting the students who had mocked England’s score of ten points earlier. Their uniforms—bright blue and crimson—flared vividly in the dim light, perfectly matching their bold, contradictory presence.
Wade now knew: these were students from Ilvermorny, America’s magical school.
In Britain, some old-fashioned wizards dismissed Ilvermorny as nothing more than a crude imitation of Hogwarts—superficial, restless. But American wizards saw them as pioneers, full of untapped potential. To them, Hogwarts was the dusty relic, clinging to outdated traditions.
Yet, due to the inherently conservative and closed nature of the magical world, such views rarely crossed borders.
And now, these two schools would be brought together at Hogwarts… Wade couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Professor McGonagall.
As for Dumbledore—well, he’d probably be utterly unfazed. He’d just smile, watching the clash of ideals with quiet amusement, and say with a twinkle, “Well done, both of you.”
Wade’s gaze shifted from the Ilvermorny compartment, glancing briefly at the match. A Peruvian Chaser launched the Quaffle with all his strength toward the Irish side—yet the Irish Beater dodged with startling agility.
The skill displayed by these Quidditch players never failed to surprise Wade. It was night now, the sky overcast, no moon in sight. Even with the stadium lights, spotting the Quaffle wasn’t easy.
And yet, the players reacted as if the Quaffle and Bludgers were extensions of their own limbs. Sometimes, they’d dodge or intercept without even seeing the ball—bodies moving before minds could catch up.
Quidditch, Wade realized, was far from boring.
He glanced away for a moment—and saw a Peruvian player struck by the Quaffle. Blood sprayed instantly. The player plummeted from the sky, but the safety team was already rushing to his aid on broomsticks, catching him mid-fall with a Hovering Charm just before he hit the ground.
The match paused briefly. Wade’s focus returned to the stands, to the compartment.
He wandered the lens aimlessly, hoping to spot familiar faces—Antoine, Gellert Grindelwald, McGonagall, Dumbledore.
Then—something caught his eye.
A strand of pale gold hair, silky and luminous, like sunlight slipping through silk, suddenly drew his attention.
Lucius Malfoy in Another Box.
They sat in the back row, seemingly ignoring the game, whispering to one another, their expressions tense, even agitated.
Wade watched as Lucius Malfoy unconsciously gripped his own arm, his expression twisted with fear—and disgust.
When the whistle blew again, Lucius stood and left the compartment. Most of the others followed soon after.
Two of them were broad-shouldered, massive in build—like enlarged versions of Crabbe and Goyle. Undoubtedly, they were the fathers of those two Slytherin students.
Wade had seen the father of Crabbe before. Now, the man looked even more sullen, silent throughout, merely listening.
The others were varied in appearance: one gaunt and sharp-faced, another with a brutal expression, a third with a pronounced hunchback. Most of them unconsciously brushed their arms against each other—almost like reflexive gestures.
—A small gathering of Death Eaters?
Wade furrowed his brow. Once they were gone, the remaining occupants slowly returned their attention to the game.
Wade lowered the telescope and adjusted it. The panoramic lens had one advantage: it could replay, zoom in, and zoom out.
The figures inside the compartment soon filled the lens. Wade studied their blurred lip movements—
“…The mark… is growing clearer… Resurrection…”
“Impossible…”
“Create chaos… test the waters… signal can be passed…”
“Wait for the moment… we need… the final…”
Wade set the telescope down, frowning deeply.
The Dark Mark on their arms was a warning. Voldemort was preparing for his resurrection?
It was like a constant, invisible electric shock—inescapable, impossible to forget. In some ways, it even weakened the effect of the Obliviation Charm.
So… were they going to follow the original plot? After the match, would they cause chaos in the camp? Torture Muggles?
Then—suddenly—a piercing, shrill whistle.
Ireland had won.
The stands erupted in chaos—shouts, cheers, wild celebrations. Supporters waved their wands into the air, unleashing dazzling magical fireworks into the night sky.
The Irish players circled the pitch again and again, flying high, as if determined to broadcast their victory to every soul in the stands.
With this win, they’d secured their place in the final. Their academic standing was now locked in the top two.
“That was incredible,” Harry said, still breathless. “Aidan Linzi was amazing. His teammates were too. Wade, what do you think?”
Wade blinked slowly. “Honestly? The most exciting match is always the first one.”
“Huh?” Harry frowned, not understanding. He wasn’t fond of books—especially history.
But Sirius Black and Remus Lupin caught on instantly. They burst into laughter.
“In 1473,” Wade explained, “the first Quidditch World Cup had nothing like today’s rules. I heard they once turned a Chaser into a chicken ferret. Tried to behead the Keeper with a cleaver. The team captain even hid over a hundred vampire bats under his robes. Now that was real Quidditch.”
Harry stared, wide-eyed. “That… isn’t even Quidditch anymore.”
Wade nodded. “Authentic wizard Quidditch.”
(End of Chapter)
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